Pieces
by Lawson227
Summary: On a late-night walk to clear his head post-Alamo, Wyatt stumbles across a distraught Lucy and learns a few truths about their mission—and about Lucy. Hint of a whiff of a 'ship.


**AN:** Obviously, own nothing of Timeless but the ideas in my head. All belongs to Kripke & Co.

* * *

He should've been out cold. After everything he'd been through the past week—hell, just in the last twenty-four hours—no one would have blamed him for sleeping like the dead. But maybe it's because he'd been so close to death—again—that he couldn't sleep.

Besides—he liked this time of morning. The quiet aloneness. Dark, but with the fuzzy edges of light teasing the edges of that darkness, promising that another day would dawn.

Those long nights after Jessica's death, that tiny bit of light was often the only thing that had kept him going. Too often, he'd sit, holding his service weapon and praying to a God he wasn't even sure he believed in anymore that the impenetrable dark would swallow him up. Just end this goddamned misery. But every time, just as he was sure this was it—that this would be the night he'd lose himself to the dark—those delicate fingers of light would just pierce the darkness, glinting off the polished surface of his weapon as if in admonition.

Jess never did have much patience for his Texas-sized broods, as she called them.

So he decided to challenge the dark. Turn it to his advantage and make it his ally. Nights he couldn't sleep, and God knew, there were still plenty of them, he'd take himself out into the dark and walk. He'd walk for hours, concentrating on the symphony of sounds beneath the souls of his boots: the smooth steadiness of the sidewalks and pavement giving way to the subtle rustle of grass or the rattle of pebbles and the occasional sharp snap of a twig. He'd breathe the air, from the remnants of the day's exhaust to fresh loamy greenness until he breached the dark and emerged out into the light.

It didn't always work.

Some nights, he was just too damned exhausted to challenge the dark. But he wouldn't wait for it to swallow him—he'd promised Jess. So he drank instead, mentally asking forgiveness and understanding.

However, he had to admit drinking had started losing its appeal of late. Ever since that first stomach-churning jump to 1937. Not to mention, each subsequent time jump. With not knowing when he'd next get called, the impulse to crawl into the bottle had definitely lessened. So walking it was.

Now, he'd be lying if he said he never encountered anything unexpected on these walks. Sometimes it was a person. Sometimes, an animal. Sometimes, it was just the weather catching him unawares.

But on the scale of unexpected?

This one had to take the cake.

Slumped on one of the benches in the gazebo perched at the end of the boardwalk jutting out into the lake that during the day was all lacy, picturesque gingerbread and bucolic views. This late at night, however, it was reduced to shadows on top of shadows into which she would have blended had it not been for the reflection of the full moon off the lake's surface throwing just enough light that he spotted her.

He almost didn't say anything. After all, people were entitled to space and cope with their shit in whatever way they saw fit. And if she wanted to sit in the dark and…contemplate, then who the hell was he to judge? Except broody contemplation wasn't her style. She was more about talking out her feelings and fretting and laying hands on and all but shaking sense into a body.

 _I need you. I trust you._

It was the echo of those words, spoken just hours—a lifetime—ago, that led him to approach. Slow and cautious, so as not to spook her, but making just enough noise she'd be well aware of his presence should she want to mace or shoot or…whatever.

"Lucy?"

Nothing. Not so much as a muscle twitch.

The tiny hairs on the back of his neck rose.

"Luce?"

A name he'd never used, but that somehow came naturally. Still, though…nothing to indicate she'd heard. His heart rate rose incrementally and he took another cautious step forward. Close enough to note the slight rise and fall of her chest and see a damp sheen on her cheeks, allowing him to release the breath he wasn't even aware of holding.

Finally within an arm's length but with no more sense she was aware of his presence, he resorted to the one thing guaranteed to prompt a reaction.

"Ma'am—?"

Infused with a healthy dose of the sardonic drawl he knew drove her especially nuts, it's what finally did the trick. Nothing more than a sigh and a slight flicker of a glance his direction, but it was enough. He eased himself to the bench alongside her and stretched his legs out. If there was anything the military had taught him, it was how to judge when best to press forward and when to wait. Now that he'd received acknowledgment of his presence, however slight, it was time to wait.

Surprisingly, he didn't have to wait long.

"I'm glad this is the same."

"What is?"

One hand rose, ghostly white in the dark, and waved vaguely at their surroundings. "This—the lake. The gazebo." Her hand dropped back to her lap, fingers worrying the edges of that damned dumpy sweater she was inexplicably attached to. "Amy and I—we used to play here all the time. This gazebo—it was…everything. It was classroom and stage and fairy house and pirate ship and even a space ship." A sharp, bitter laugh bounced and skimmed along the lake's still surface like a pebble. An instant later, a hoot echoed back across the lake as if in reply, mellow and oddly reassuring.

"We played with our dolls and acted out famous historical events—we even planned how we'd have our weddings here."

She sighed, and lowered her chin to her chest, leaving the nape of her neck exposed. To his surprise, Wyatt found himself fighting back an urge to rest his hand on that vulnerable curve. It was an unfamiliar urge, given he wasn't normally one for casual displays of physical contact. If he knew someone, sure, yeah. But he didn't really know her—not really. Certainly not well enough to go touching her without prompting. And there wasn't anything right here, right now from which she needed actual protection. At least, nothing physical.

Nevertheless, he damn near had to sit on his hand to keep from reaching out and touching her—if only to reassure her she wasn't alone. But that was stupid. She knew he was here. Moreover, what did _he_ matter? It's not as if she knew him any better than he knew her.

 _I need you. I trust you._

He was so lost in mulling over those frantic, yet utterly sure words and her subsequent stand in making certain he remained on the team, that he only just barely registered she'd resumed speaking.

"Come again?"

She released a long, shaky sigh. "Never mind."

"Lucy—"

"It's stupid."

"Not if it's got you out here at four in the morning."

"I thought that's when especially stupid decisions were made."

"Or some of the smartest and you're evading."

Silence fell between them once more and once more, he was prepared to wait her out. What he wasn't prepared for, however, was the tentative brush of her hand as it reached for where his rested on his thigh. Without hesitation, he turned his hand palm up, wincing only slightly at the unexpected strength and desperation in her grip.

"What if it's me?"

"What if _what's_ you?"

Her fingers convulsed around his. "This whole…thing. Everything we've been dealing with—Flynn and history and…everything."

He shifted on the bench to face her more fully, keeping her hand firmly in his. "Lucy, what the hell do you mean, it's you? You're not making sense."

He could see the muscles in her throat working as she swallowed.

"What if I'm…the catalyst for all of this?"

He laughed. He couldn't help it. It just burst out of him in the same instant he realized just what an unbelievably wrong thing it was to do. It was only by reaching out and taking hold of her other hand that he only just managed to keep her from bolting.

"Lucy, wait—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh, it's just—" He paused, a maelstrom of thoughts roiling through his mind and not a damned one of them making sense. "Hell, I don't know." He took a deep breath and forced himself to find one word—one thought—on which to focus. The way he'd been trained. He tightened his hold on her hands and waited until she met his gaze.

"Catalyst?" he asked quietly. The one word his mind had seized on.

Once again he had to wait her out while her gaze, pale and intense, even in the low light, bored into his, as if sizing him up and trying to decide just _how_ much she trusted him.

"Have you noticed how of the three of us, I'm the only one who's experienced any seismic changes?" One hand freed itself from his to close around the locket she wore. "My sister being gone and my mother not being sick any more and a fiancé I had no idea existed?"

"I—" He stopped short, not knowing what to say. He'd been so focused on his own failures—his inability to kill Flynn and the fact that no matter what they changed, Jessica was still dead, he hadn't really stopped to think about anyone or anything else. But hell—Lucy had a point. As far as he knew, Rufus' situation remained the same. His status quo hadn't changed. But Lucy—everything she knew and loved had gone ass over teakettle.

"Then there's this."

He watched as her hand moved from the locket to a pocket of her sweater and slowly drew out a folded slip of paper.

"What's that?"

"Apparently, that's the name of my father."

"The name of—?"

"My biological father," she clarified. "Because apparently the reason Amy doesn't exist but I still do is because the man I believed to be my father—who in this timeline is married to someone _not_ my mother—wasn't ever actually my father."

The paper whispered light, unintelligible sounds as she worried it between thumb and forefinger. He closed his hand over hers, stilling the motion. "So regardless of timeline, you've never known your real father."

One shoulder lifted. "Apparently not."

Silence fell between them then, but it wasn't the silence of all conversation having been exhausted. Rather, his soldier's sense warned that it was more like the gathering of forces in the calm before the storm.

The light that had so often been his salvation was just beginning to limn the edges of the horizon when the storm finally broke.

"Flynn has a journal."

He remained silent, understanding this was merely the opening salvo.

"This journal—he's using it as some sort of…guide for all this madness and— It's…" She paused, visibly gathering herself. "He says I wrote it."

A breeze kicked up, strong enough to rattle the branches overhead and kick up small whitecaps on the lake. "He'll say anything he thinks will advance his agenda, Lucy. He'll do anything he can to get in your head. We know this."

"I know, Wyatt—I _know_. But—" Her voice broke as she took a shaky breath. "But he's shown me the journal and it's…it's…" Once again her voice broke and faded away as she shook her head, as if trying to rid it of some horrible vision. He knew the move well, having employed it too damned many times. Her hands, which he'd never released, trembled violently despite his firm hold.

"It's what, Lucy?" he urged, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck rising the way they had when he'd first seen her, shrouded in darkness in this gazebo, and fearing the worst.

"The journal's in my handwriting, Wyatt. It is absolutely _my_ handwriting. But I'd never set eyes it until the moment he showed it to me."

Wyatt could see it clear as if it was happening right in front of him—Lucy and Flynn silhouetted against the fiery remains of the Hindenburg, Flynn speaking with the intent earnestness of a zealot while Lucy stood there, clearly shell-shocked. "It's what he showed you—in nineteen thirty-seven—wasn't it? And why, when we got back, you asked about why you were chosen—and Rittenhouse." She nodded and shuddered violently, full body quakes he felt all the way down to his bones. Releasing one of her hands, he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close.

Her voice vibrated against his chest, muffled by the canvas of his jacket but nevertheless clear. "And I still don't know anything. I don't know what any of this means other than somehow…some _way_ , I am at the center of all of this. That something I've done is what triggers Flynn." She lifted her head and met his gaze. "Wyatt—what if _I'm_ somehow the true villain in all this?"

"Lucy…" he started, before his voice drifted off because what the hell could he say? What could possibly make this okay? She wasn't wrong—she'd lost whole chunks of her past while a key piece of her future seemed to be at the heart of what was driving Flynn. He tucked her more closely against him, one arm holding firm while the other stroked soothing circles on her back. It appeared they were taking turns at this reassurance thing—he'd settled her in Germany, she'd brought him back from the brink at the Alamo, and now…this.

"Whatever happens, I'm in this with you, Luce. We'll figure out what the hell is up with this mysterious journal and why it's so important to Flynn and we _will_ stop him."

"And me?" She pulled back just far enough to meet his gaze once more. "Will you stop me if necessary?"

"Lu—"

"Promise me, Wyatt," she broke in, her tone low and ferocious. "You promise me you'll stop me from doing any lasting damage to history."

He wouldn't do what she was actually asking. He couldn't. Not any more than she'd been able to leave him behind at the Alamo. But her pale, fierce gaze and the mulish set of her mouth were demanding some sort of promise. So he gave her the only one he could.

"I promise I'll do everything in my power to protect you, Lucy. Which includes keeping you from doing anything damaging to history."

She held his gaze long enough he felt himself starting to squirm. The woman was brilliant—she'd read his evasion for what it was. But after another few long, uncomfortable seconds, she sighed and nodded, understanding it was the best she'd get from him.

"Thank you."

"Anytime."

He pulled her close again, tucking her head down on his shoulder before turning them slightly to look out over the lake where the silver light of dawn was just beginning to overtake the dark.

"Looks like it's gonna be a pretty day," he said quietly.

"A new day."

Left unsaid was that by the end of the day, it might be newer still, more changes wrought by Flynn or by their own actions. And they'd have to start over—figuring out what had changed and piecing it all back together.

But that could wait. For now they had light overtaking dark as it did every day, reliable and as reassuring as a favorite blanket. As symbols went, it's one he was willing to trust.


End file.
